


on Pelion

by wxpt



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: M/M, No Dialogue, POV Achilles (Song of Achilles), Pelion Fic, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:54:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29827341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wxpt/pseuds/wxpt
Summary: "I am worried the beach was a dream."Achilles' thoughts on Mount Pelion, moments before Patroclus and his relationship begins.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	on Pelion

I am worried the beach was a dream.

I keep finding it in my head like a troubled ghost.

The sand grains rough and sharp against the soles of my pink feet, my hands sunk behind me, the ocean in front with its wide, yawning mouth. Patroclus, a warm and solid presence beside me, with the heady, tantalizing brush of his arm on my shoulder. I have been describing Patroclus like that, with those words, as of late.

Patroclus and his drowsy sleep, twisted in the sparse sheets as the sun bleeds in through the mouth of the cave. His warm foot pressed to my calf. It was only during the first winter on Pelion that he agreed to sleep on the bed with me, after what was months of my unsuccessful offers. Patroclus smelling of fire while we roast pheasants for dinner. My skin sparking against the brush of his finger as he passes me spitted meat, his eyes on Chiron who speaks of stars and stories beneath the blanketed night. I am not listening, but waiting for when we’re sent to rest, when I can watch Patroclus lean over the draining pool and wash his face. His shoulders flexing and pulling beneath his tunic.

I have noticed those things, and they feel novel, almost, like finding a clam beneath wet sand. But I am beginning to think my observations of him are not new. I’ve dug them up, I’ve found them buried, wiped my thumb along the shell of some quietly stored secret. Before, in those wide halls of the palace, these thoughts had slipped from me and dispersed like dust in water. Big clouds of unyielding desire coddled and savored then released to bounce along the marble floors, the toiled fields, the waning beach.

The beach with Patroclus. His shoulder against mine. My hands making hollows in the sand. Patroclus watching me and I waiting, waiting for him and letting him stare and thinking of the dip of his upper lip and how it would feel against the dip of mine. The beach with Patroclus and his breath in my mouth and the small, almost inaudible noise he pressed into me, like he was drowning. Then my feet hitting the Earth and the angered rumble of the ocean that dogged my back.

I am thinking that this was a vision. Or at least, Patroclus was, because the ocean is very real, and screams and beats at my heels. The ocean comes to visit and she tells me, spitting salt, that the cliffs are too high here, the terrain too rocky, and the dirt too dry for her to see the shapes of me and him.

But now, as I walk back, I wonder if the Patroclus who kissed me was made of motes. Because I have been staring and I have been waiting, but he does not turn his eyes to me anymore. I am left recounting the sound he made, as if it had been cut from his body, and the feeling of his open palm on my skin before I had raced to my feet. It is too late, I suppose. Three years is not a long time, but it is enough time that Patroclus has learned distance. I’ve never known that with him, but as he’s learned withdrawal, I’ve learned to steal what he gives me, unawares.

Like the undisturbed moments in the wood, picking berries or checking traps. Once we’re done, our fingers bruised from prickly thorns or serrated wire, we hunker down beneath a tree for a break. To waste time in drowsy silence before Chiron becomes suspicious and seeks us out. These are the times I’ve come to covet. Patroclus, after an hour of thankless tasks, leaning upon the bark of the tree. His tongue loose and bored, droning in a low tone that stirs in the pit of my stomach. Patroclus is never careful, in these moments, and I can take what I want, quietly and happily while he rests his eyes.

When he isn’t looking, I can stare too long. At his dark skin and fine calves, the way he spreads his fingers in a stretch and bends his thumb until it pops against the plane of his pretty palm. Sometimes, I am caught. My eyes will snap up from where they are staring at the curve of his shoulder and he will meet my eyes, a flush on his high cheeks that I can’t discern — embarrassment, anger; an untampered, swelling hope telling me it is something more.

But, I should say, it is not often I am caught. I am quicker than Patroclus, after all.

Still, I grow wearied and tired everyday. I am fatigued from cutting my eyes to him, from purposefully and carefully bumping our hands. I am sick to my stomach from waking up beside him, close and languished and untouchable, and I am sick of not having him.

I reach the gape of the crystal cave. Its angled, clear walls catch the setting sun and slash out at me, dashing sunspots across the clearing. I hear Patroclus inside.

I am resolved.

I step into its cool darkness and find his eyes.


End file.
